Five Minute Friday – Story

You know what day it is.  It’s where a bunch of us gather all fearless-like and write without thinking for 5 minutes.  No back tracking, no editing, no worrying, just writing for sheer joy of watching words form on a screen.  This a community who knows how to encourage, who loves deeply and who laughs with regularity and we can be found on Twitter on Thursday nights via #FMFParty.  We would love it so much if you would join us and our lovely hostess Lisa-Jo Baker.  

P.S.  There is only really one hard and fast rule to Five Minute Friday and that is that you must leave some blog fairy dust in the comments section of the person who linked up just before you. It’s an absolute because it’s what we’re about.  

Ready, set…


She walks up the stairs of that old farm house.  The white one with the peeling paint, and the septic tank that overflows.  She walks up the stairs that are covered in decades-old shag carpet and she can’t help but remember the other feet that walked those stairs. 
Her Oma as a young woman, raising children under a roof but with not much else.  She thought about her mother and how her feet had also touched those stairs and she wondered how many trips up and down they made.  As she goes she picks up scattered remnants of the day,  the Lego creation that was supposed to resemble the Death Star and darn it, did she just step on a Barbie shoe. 
Her hand trembles as her fingers grace the banister. Their hands, those of her Oma and her mama touched that worn word.  At the end of weary days that straight as an arrow guide was like a marker on a map pointing them to rest.  To beds and pillows and a rooms full of little girl dreams – the ones lived and crushed. 
And as she meandered down the hall she continued to pick up this and that. It was as if life had shed it’s clothes at the end of the longest day and all of the paraphernalia sighed into the carpet. And there in their rooms her children’s soft breath could be heard.  She stood between those two rooms and wondered what was going through their minds in sleep addled bliss.  She wonders as she watches their chests rise and fall with an easy rhythm whether she did enough, said enough, accomplished enough to let them know that love surrounded them.  The sharp word she spoke at dinner, the raised and screeching voice that sounded more like broken glass that love and nurturing – was that what they were dreaming of behind closed lids. 
She takes one minute to tuck feet and arms under covers and leaves the breath of a kiss on their brows before she turns to head to her own dream land.  And, as she walks the final steps up to the room with the ruby red carpet to the man who pledged to do all of this with her and beside her she stops to listen for just a moment. 
She can hear the walls whisper as they tell the story of family.  The beams groan under the weight of disappointment and the carpet holds fibers of dreams.  The windows, like mirrors reflect the lives and loves that have lived inside the frame of that old farm house.  And as she crawls into bed the cool sheets on her legs she breathes deep and let’s the house’s soothing tale lullaby her to sleep. 


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